Page 18 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“M-my husband’s grandfather,” Caro explained, looking over her shoulder at Fanny. “I have never met the man—why, I didn’t think he even knew of my existence. What reason could he have for seeking me out now? And here? Something must have happened.”

Fanny wished once more for the power to utter something like a warning. The only power she had at present, however, was to behave as a lady would under such circumstances. She must excuse herself and go.

Before she could make a move in that direction, however, Caro rocked back onto a lower step and reached out to lay a staying hand on Fanny’s arm. “Won’t you come inside for a moment? Your manservant can leave my books on the hall table.”

Clearly, she wanted to avoid having to face her guest alone. Fanny nodded and let her slip her arm once more through the crook of Fanny’s elbow and lead her up the remaining steps and into the house. Inside, tension curled through the air like fog rolling in off the water. The nervous maid bobbed a curtsy and nodded toward the staircase. “Mrs. Horn showed His Grace to the drawing room, milady.”

Though Fanny could feel the reluctance in Caro’s footsteps, they nonetheless climbed steadily to the first floor. Only on the threshold of the drawing room did she truly hesitate, reaching up a hand to smooth her hair and discovering she still wore her veiled bonnet. After drawing a steadying breath, she uncoiled her arm from Fanny’s, removed her gloves and then her bonnet, and laid them on the seat of a delicate chair nearby. Against her auburn hair, her fingers were pale as she fluffed and straightened, until she was perfectly composed, until the woman who had laughed in the tea shop was nowhere to be seen.

Belatedly, Fanny realized she had acquired a great deal of information about the people and pastimes of Brighton today, but very little about Caro herself. When the door opened, Fanny did not know whether to expect her to shriek, weep, or perhaps even faint at the first sight of her guest, the Duke of Hartwell.

For of course the visitor was not her husband’s grandfather.

It was her husband.

Even knowing what she did, Fanny had to stifle a gasp as she stepped into the room behind her friend. Mrs. Scott had mentioned something about the man having been injured as a child. But neither she nor anyone else of Fanny’s acquaintance, excepting General Scott, had actually seen him, and for all his loquacity, the general had not been forthcoming about such details.

The present Duke of Hartwell was a giant of a man, tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair and eyes, his complexion sun warmed, as if he had recently come from a more southerly clime. In the bookshop Caro had said something about the appearance of villainy. Fanny wasn’t sure what villains were meant to look like; weren’t Hartwell’s particular attributes—stature and strength—as often ascribed to heroes? Tall, dark, and handsome, and all that?

Except the duke was not handsome. His scowl, which judging from the lines of his face must form a nearly permanent part of his expression, only highlighted his crooked nose, sunken cheek, and a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. Brooding, hulking…those were the adjectives that leaped to mind when she saw him, and though she couldn’t quite make herself look away, neither did she want to take one step closer.

Caro, however, marched up to him. “Oh. I thought you might be the one who was dead,” she said in a voice so cool and matter of fact even Fanny envied it. The duke himself stood stock still, rather like a mastiff warily watching the approach of a kitten with a puffed-up tail.

Caro’s metaphorical tail remained sleek, however, betraying not even a twitch of annoyance. “My condolences on the passing of your grandfather” were her next words, accompanied by a slight curtsy, a deferential dip of her head, though the set of her chin remained firm. Then she raised her eyes to his face again. “Now that you’ve delivered the news, you may be on your way.”

Chapter 6

When Caro had stepped into the room, Maxim had fully expected her to erupt in anger. Anger was understandable, justifiable. Familiar. He’d lived with anger all his life.

Her calm put him at a disadvantage. But he could work with cold dismissal.

He knew how to use it to make things worse.

“On my way? Why would you assume I don’t intend to stay, my dear?”

Something like a tremor passed through Caro, but she stiffened her spine against it. “Past experience, I suppose.”

“Where else would I go?” he prodded, determined to break through her façade.

“To hell, for all I care.”

Inwardly, he smiled. Oh, yes. She was angry all right. She hated him, just as he’d hoped.

He waited for a sense of triumph to surge through him at this confirmation, but it never came.

When he’d left all those years ago, he’d done so in spectacularly callous fashion. He’d intended to keep her from persuading herself that she cared for him, to keep her from imagining that he could ever care for her.

Now he understood that if such had truly been his goal, he should have hoped not for anger and hatred, but indifference.

A gasp behind Caro dragged his attention to the still-open door and the pale-haired woman standing there. “Introduce me to your friend,” he said.

Caro turned and reached out a hand to draw the other woman further into the room. “Mrs. Drummond.” In the stranger’s expression he saw the familiar glimmers of disgust and fear at his appearance, along with amazement that his wife could speak of his inevitable damnation with undisguised anticipation. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Hartwell.” Mrs. Drummond dipped into a shaky curtsy. “Hartwell, this is Mrs. Drummond.”

He bowed, hating the sound of his title even more on Caro’s lips. “Ma’am.”

“I should—” Mrs. Drummond began, then paused, as if weighing whether to give in to the impulse to flee or stay and offer support, no matter how feeble, to her friend.

Caro relieved her of the burden of a decision. “My dear Mrs. Drummond,” she said, turning her back on him, “you have been so kind as to give me your afternoon when you must be wishing to enjoy those books you chose at Donaldson’s.”